flora
Flora lets her smile stretch, dazzling and empty all at once, as familiar faces flicker across her periphery. She nods to Hadama with a subtle arch of her brow at his quip, lets her fingers linger in his squeeze before drawing them back, and returns Dantalion ’s toast with a delicate clink of her own glass against invisible air. She even flashes Astaroth a little wink, though her gaze doesn't linger long—none of them do—because Flora is left feeling adrift. Sohalia doesn’t come to stand with her, and Kaisel cannonballs into a void-viper floatie and never once looks her way. And though she knows—knows—not to take it personally, the ache still curls like saltwater inside her chest. She was too dangerous to be around for her friends, but wasn't enough to be invited to the inner Dad-squad who, based on their little glances, were absolutely talking about her.
So, when Jack lifts his glass, she lifts her chin feeling disproportionally relieved. He’s beneath an umbrella, half-sunk in shadow, the kind of shadow she used to run toward like the sea wall after a storm. Her heels leave faint imprints in the sand as she approaches, steps slow but deliberate, hips swaying with queenly ease despite the way her stomach knots. Her drink—something from her private stash, turquoise and glittering—is cool against her fingers, and she sips it idly as she reaches him.
"Can you believe this weather?" she says lightly, glancing toward the glimmering water. "Not a storm in sight." The sunlight catches on the red of her bikini, vivid against her sun-kissed skin, highlighting the elegant strength of her figure—the toned curve of her waist, the confidence in every line of her posture—but beneath the glint of her lashes, another conversation begins. Plans changed. Deimos is doing the throwing now. Her mental voice is steady, all sugar and heat and sharp precision, a private message slid across the table in the middle of a crowded room. Outwardly, she gives a soft, amused huff and raises her drink toward one of the mirewyrm floaties.
"Vox seems to be enjoying himself," she adds with casual disdain, then lowers her glass to glance at him sidelong. I'll channel and then probably go invisible since I gave Deimos my compass, she adds silently, letting her thoughts flow like a ripple across the surface of his mind.
So, when Jack lifts his glass, she lifts her chin feeling disproportionally relieved. He’s beneath an umbrella, half-sunk in shadow, the kind of shadow she used to run toward like the sea wall after a storm. Her heels leave faint imprints in the sand as she approaches, steps slow but deliberate, hips swaying with queenly ease despite the way her stomach knots. Her drink—something from her private stash, turquoise and glittering—is cool against her fingers, and she sips it idly as she reaches him.
"Can you believe this weather?" she says lightly, glancing toward the glimmering water. "Not a storm in sight." The sunlight catches on the red of her bikini, vivid against her sun-kissed skin, highlighting the elegant strength of her figure—the toned curve of her waist, the confidence in every line of her posture—but beneath the glint of her lashes, another conversation begins. Plans changed. Deimos is doing the throwing now. Her mental voice is steady, all sugar and heat and sharp precision, a private message slid across the table in the middle of a crowded room. Outwardly, she gives a soft, amused huff and raises her drink toward one of the mirewyrm floaties.
"Vox seems to be enjoying himself," she adds with casual disdain, then lowers her glass to glance at him sidelong. I'll channel and then probably go invisible since I gave Deimos my compass, she adds silently, letting her thoughts flow like a ripple across the surface of his mind.
The rumors are terrible and cruel
But honey, most of them are true
But honey, most of them are true
